


laurus nobilis

by thespis_hauntings



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Future Character Death, Gen, Prophecy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 02:51:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4812176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespis_hauntings/pseuds/thespis_hauntings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there are pains of being a prophet.</p><p>one of them is seeing your own fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	laurus nobilis

**Author's Note:**

> this is really short, i wrote it in a 70 minute class and only read through it like twice but anyways take it
> 
> octavian acts so much like me and im like Dying also i havent read the books in a long time so thats why this is au- cause idk when percy got the sibylline books or any of that stuff 
> 
> ok im done

octavian squints at his phone screen and grumbles, rubbing it clean with his thumb. next to him the cold and wet windows drip with melting snow and he leans away as to not dirty his bleach-blonde hair.

it is december. it is 11 pm. and his night has only just begun.

the augur of new rome- if only these common folks surrounding him new what power he holds!- turns down the brightness on his handheld and resumes his movie. it's hard to see and he's not invested in it at all, but the running background noise is comforting.

otherwise the city bus would be silent. there's only a few other people near him and he wrinkles his nose, covering the lower half of his face with his scarf to fight the winter temperature and also the smell. all around him, the scent of dull and mundane normal humans, who work the late shift and go home to a messy house. he is not one of them. he is special.

he has the gift of apollo. it lives in him, resides in his thin, bony fingers and long legs, in his pale, lifeless eyes, he blames his dizzy spells and fast heart on said gift, his brittle nails are a part of his power, he tells himself.

his prophetic visions have accompanied him for 18 hard years. 

as the memories force their way back into his head, of all the things he never wanted to see and now reyna doubts that he can- he clenches his hand into a fist and tells the thoughts to leave. not tonight. tonight he is heading north, to montreal. his only food is a bag of half-eaten caramel corn which he lazily munches on, and a bottle of almost frozen, overly purified water.

wheels squeak, someone gets on, heavy footsteps, octavian resumes his film. there's only a half hour left, and then he'll have to search for another. he will not let himself sleep tonight. he must not. 

octavian's brand burns once again he winces, slapping the old wound. the static bouncing around his brain starts to solidify, change shape, transform. he can feel it, feel his gift urging him to act, soon he'll be told something important and he knows if he doesn't work quickly, work now-

he stops thinking and starts moving. the grimy duffel bag next to him opens with surprising ease, a realistic stuffed goat is removed. octavian muses for a second on how nice this brand is, despite providing tougher outer fabric- the fluff is less polyester and more genuine cotton, closer to the old roman ways. 

the plastic eyes of the billy stare at him and he panics, he can feel the voice at its strongest, it needs to communicate- quickly he plucks a small gutting knife that he keeps pinned to the inside of his jacket and produces a glass bowl from the same duffel as the stuffie, he sets it on his knees and then the goat in it.

and raises his knife. he spits out a prayer in latin to his ancestor, the great apollo and his lyre, a note from that same lyre strikes loud and clear in his head only once, it reverberates and shakes every part of him, the blade slices the skin and the stuffing pours out.

his vision is blurred, which always signals a successful sacrifice, it's been several months since he truly was able to prophesy. his constant attempts did nothing to help, only at times like this was it at all true.

once his sight clears he discards the leftovers into his bag and studies the fluff. 

he quickly reaches over just to pause his movie before ripping out his earbuds and completely tossing it aside for the moment, the bus glides smoothly, octavian is alone with his dish that holds the future on this unreal trip to nowhere, the snow begins again, pounding against the closed window, drifting up to block any view of the outside, and he knows what it says now.

fire. flames. death. greece. rome. him.

octavian studies it and then dryly chokes, attempting not to sob, he does something that he has always been explicitly told not to do- he shakes the bowl, shakes the truth, in a desperate hope that it can be rearranged but after the fluff settles it's still there.

fire. death. greece. him.

octavian never considered his demise.

death. him.

everything seems so wasteful now- he shouldn't be on this late bus, running away once more, out on some half-assed mission for the sibylline books, which that awful greek most likely already has- octavian can see his death, soon, very soon, by the end of the year. end of the summer.

and he leaves no legacy. no partner, no lover, a powerful stance yet no one who appreciated him in it, he brought nothing useful to camp except for the occasional murder to keep the recruits on their toes.

in the grand scheme of things, he is nothing. octavian, descendant of caesar himself, truly is meaningless.

in a way, his life replays before him. the countless blood- literal and figurative- that riddles his hands. the days spent in the principles office when it was nice outside, because the way he spoke disturbed the other children, his threats and manipulations had to be left at home. which they were. octavian's mother berated him, and he accepted it.

he sighs, and stares at the swirls gathering across the glass.

octavian will fall. when, where, he does not know. but now this shadow of fate looms over him. 

there are ways to cheat death.

new rome will prosper in his wake. his poison will no longer infect the spirits who serve the soldiers dinner, no longer will his toxic whispers hurt the naive and gentle newcomers that he trains.

a part of the augur's corrupt soul is left on that sticky, plasticity seat.

the rest of him gets off early, in new york instead, as he should be. octavian goes on to live his final months.

inside his bag the mutilated goat plush bleats, and far above apollo goes back to watching the starlight.


End file.
